Thursday, October 4, 2012

Climbing the Hill

I'm just going to skip a lot of cliche things I'm inclined to write about autumn and just say that i absolutely love it.  I want to smooch it on its old, withering, brown and orange face, to dive into a pile of leaves and pumpkins and campfires, roll around in it, take the warmth and richness into my heart; Halloweens, football season, gatherings of family-and let it simmer there forever.  Have i escaped saying something cliche?  Have I?  It matters not, the Fall and its charms are an endless source of joy to me, and i shiver with delight when i feel the leaves crackle under my boots as we walk through the forest on a perfectly cool afternoon.

Is it October already?  Seriously?! But I can see it; the northwest has a particular way of winding down before the cold rains come to blot out sweet sunlight for months at a time, bringing out the Kurt Cobain in everyone.  The crispy, yellowing leaves complement the downy-soft mosses and ferns that carpet the forests and cover the trees.  Its like walking on your grandfather's old flannel jacket for miles as we wind up and around the hills, babies strapped to our chests with cloth harnesses, toward the summit of the butte to watch the setting sun.  The babies are cooing, elated to be out under the open sky.  We pass by young college couples and active seniors who admire our children and share stories with us about their grandchildren.  Isaiah is by turns our leader and our detractor, in one moment deciding that he is Wolverine, strafing ahead of us with determination and occasional karate-like chops and kicks, occasionally to our rumps.  Minutes later he trudges behind, complaining of legs pains, fatigue, hunger, like a little old man boy.  We make frequent stops to drink water, feed the kids raisins, let Isaiah go pee, etc.

Its a long walk up the hill and having twenty-five pounds of baby strapped to your chest doesn't make it any easier, but as tends to happen with reasonably long hikes we eventually settle into a happy rhythm with each other and the hill.  The babies grow quiet, eyes wide and sparkly as they take in the birds, squirrels and sprawling tree canopy.  A sense of purpose and adventure overtakes Isaiah as he goes barreling forward with dog as his guide.  We start to get glimpses of broader vistas through the trees-we can see all of Eugene and Springfield from here! By George, I didn't know there was a lake over there!  We climb higher, the terrain growing more precarious.  Soon we, babies attached, are crawling like golems over the stones of the hill as we paw for higher ground.  Stones roll out from underfoot as we chase the beams of a sun we cannot yet see, for it is sinking.  Ascending the summit we collectively feel that distinct summit feeling; a sense of clarity and accomplishment.  Even as a crowd is gathered up there; a couple of high school guys in tank tops, one girl hula-hooping atop a small peak, an assortment of late 30s, middle-agers, silverhairs; it still feels empty, incredibly quiet and subtle.  Everyone is talking, but the voices are slight and there is no echo, just the smallness of words in the endlessness of the sky-what could we be saying?  Ants on a sandhill.

Back in the car on the way home it is very noisy.  Satya is doing this thing where she sort of just intones this loud, monotone sound over and over.  Its not crying, or discomfort exactly, its sounds more like some kind of deep-stress-release therapy that she's developed and practices herself.
"aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.    aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.   aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaah."
Isaiah joins in.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!  aaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"
"Isaiah!"
"What?"
"Could you please..."
He holds his hands aloft and shrugs his shoulders, giving that what on earth might you be talking about? face.
"Oh look Isaiah, a family of deer!"  Three-to-four of them in assorted sizes plod out onto the sidewalk, ears pricked.
"Look look quick out your window!"
They turn, skitter and go bounding like ballerinas back into the forested neighborhood from whence they came.  Even the girls are straining to see.

We live in a curious part of Oregon, (Eugene,) located in the Willamette Valley amidst miles of rolling, luscious green hills, lakes and rivers.  Drive in any direction (excluding the city of Springfield) and you will find bounteous nature; mountains, streams, salmon, the great Pacific Ocean.  Drive downtown, however, and quite another story emerges.  Conan O'Brien once said, "If you want to know the long-term effects of marijuana use, visit Eugene, Oregon."  Indeed, a town infamous for once being home to Ken Kesey, godfather of the LSD-fueled hippie-clowns, the Merry Pranksters, as well as the anarchist capital of the U.S., Eugene somnambulates through its days.  The townspeople are incredibly friendly, to the point where the average, suspicion-filled American mind starts to wonder where all of these peoples' issues have gone.  How are they able to be so completely upbeat and sociable all the time?  And I'm not just talking about the unkempt, hemp-wearing hippie-youth.  Indeed, every cashier I have ever had, every gas station attendant, I would easily say that even every stranger I've ever spoken with talks to me like I'm some regular, like they want to hear what I have to say and they even have time for it.  Amazing!  Where do you hide your grumps, Eugene?  I fear that soon the grump police will come for me too.

Aside from overall friendliness one cannot underestimate the toll that the legacy of impulsive, spontaneous behavior supported by copious drug abuse has taken on the cities of Eugene and Springfield over the years.  As of five years ago Springfield was a seething hornets nest of crystal meth use and production, whose influence naturally affected much of Eugene as well.  While efforts on the parts of both cities to clean up their acts have made strides toward betterment, the sickly pallor of those ruined lives is still tangible as you drive through the cities.  The people who looked hollowed out, dried in the sun like gourds, their jaws set in constant motion by the buzzing, static fray of their ruined nerves; they are asking me for change, a cigarette, offering to buy my pants off of me; they are ghosts, living dead, zombies in our midst and there is a horrific tragedy to it.  Addicts, like prostitutes, rape, and other desperate subjects are too much  for us to collectively reckon with so we make a joke of them like the awkward laugh of a child who doesn't know what to do with an uncomfortable, shared sense of pain.  I laugh too sometimes, at the crackhead joke.  It's not good of me.  I shouldn't.

And so rather than reckon with the ups and downs of hanging out in town we opt instead for the ups and downs of the Oregon countryside, where the air is clear.


1 comment:

  1. Love, love, love these! Keep 'em coming - we can know SO much more about your world through these writings - and as I've always known - oh, how you can write........

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